


Look down, look down, You'll always be a slave

by Donatello7



Series: The Day the Music Died [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Discrimination, Donnie7 had a bad day, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non graphic violence, Slavery, not sorry, so Donnie7 wrote fluff, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donatello7/pseuds/Donatello7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a backwater planet, Kraglin experiences discrimination because of his past.</p><p>“Jumped back like I’d burned them. Royalty don’t serve slaves.” He spits the last words. “Think they only let me keep the cloak ‘cause they didn’t want to touch me to get it back.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look down, look down, You'll always be a slave

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a comment that pinkevilbob left on another story in this series.

Kraglin doesn’t know how long he has been sat here, knees drawn to his chest while he chews on a fingernail and contemplates the opposite wall. The sounds of the celebration are just on the edge of his hearing now, so he’ll notice if anything goes wrong, but he is also far enough away that it could be called peaceful.

 

He sighs, and flinches as his teeth pinch skin on his finger, drawing blood. He licks it off, and wipes the rest on the material of his trousers, before sitting back so that he is rested against the wall. He places his hands on his knees, and his eyes move to the tattoo on his wrist.

 

The cloak he had been wearing is strewn out before him, torn and muddy from where he stamped on it with his boot, and he’ll probably get into trouble for that later. Not that he cares much anymore. Yondu is always telling him that he shouldn’t worry so much about what other people think, and he supposes that there is no time like the present.

 

He’s kidding himself.

 

He glares at the tattoo. He wants to tear it off, burn it away, rip it up with his teeth and spit it far. But for all the pain he has inflicted on himself the tattoo he has never been able to touch. So he sits there and glares at it, trying to filter all of his rage and anger and upset and fear, he’s afraid of this tiny symbol that so effortlessly defines him.

 

He hears heavy footfalls that he recognises immediately, and feels a shudder pass down his spine. He’s not certain, but he’s pretty sure that tearing up a ceremonial cloak and stamping on it with muddy boots is a declaration of war.

 

He realises that he is scratching at his arm and stops himself, trying to rub with his fingertips instead.

 

“You do that?” Yondu asks, indicating the cloak with a nod. It’s a pointless question, because no, Kraglin just sat here and watched while someone else destroyed his cloak. And that is why the Xandarian doesn’t answer.

 

Yondu takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then releases it in an exaggerated sigh. “That’s gonna cause us some problems.”

 

Kraglin shrugs, and then spits on the cloak for emphasis before he stands. “Shouldn’t you be hobnobbing that Princess we rescued.”

 

“Where you heading?”

 

“I’m going to sit in my M-Ship, it’s cold.”

 

“Not by yourself you’re…”

 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter. Hu’na’ree.”

 

The punch lands square on Kraglin’s jaw, and sends him sprawling into the wall. He recovers quickly, his breathing a series of angry pants as he looks back at the Centaurian, unable to look away even as angry red eyes stare into his own.

 

“Pretty big insult you just threw at me there, Kraglin.”

 

“Yeah well, don’t teach someone your language if you don’t want them to use it.” Kraglin knows that he’ll hate himself for this later, but he wants Yondu to walk away. To leave him alone. He needs to be alone. Away from judgement and scorns and whispers and pointing fingers that no one bothers to conceal. They don’t need to worry about his feelings because he doesn’t have feelings to hurt.

 

He steadies himself, his head is starting to hurt, and starts back towards his ship.

 

“What’s going on with you?”

 

“THIS!” He flies around, holding his wrist inches from Yondu’s eyes. “They saw it, saw it while they were fixing me with that...that fucking…” He kicks the cloak and it wraps around his leg, sending him into series of stamps that would be comical in any other circumstances. “Jumped back like I’d burned them. Royalty don’t serve slaves.” He spits the last words. “Think they only let me keep the cloak ‘cause they didn’t want to touch me to get it back.”

 

Yondu takes hold of the wrist, lowering it slightly. He knew of the caste system that this planet had, but had hoped it would not be an issue during their short visit.

 

“Tried what you said. Tried ignoring it. But...and word got around and they were just...I was an insult.” Kraglin pulls his hand away from Yondu’s grip but the Captain won’t let go, so he kicks out, striking him in the knee.

 

Yondu is caught off guard, not expecting the blow. He shifts his weight onto his stronger leg and grabs the Xandarian, pulling him back and round. Kraglin goes to punch him but Yondu catches the fist within his own larger hand and retaliates with a punch of his own. Kraglin stumbles backwards, taking up a defensive stance, light on his feet. He starts his advance, and through the pounding in his ears he hears the whistling.

 

The arrow follows him as he stumbles backwards, hitting the wall and staying there, jaw trembling with anger as he watches the arrow hover up to eye level.

 

“Attacking the Captain. I should skin you alive right here.”

 

“Do it then.”

 

“Why?”

 

Kraglin calms so suddenly and so completely that he nearly collapses right there onto the pavement. He bites down on his lip to try and stop it from trembling, but it just makes his whole jaw shake. The sensation only grows worse as a gentle hand rests on his shoulder, Yondu taking the arrow with his other hand.

 

He follows Kraglin’s gaze to the Xandarian’s wrist, and gently lifts it into his own hand again, the tattoo facing up. A calm look of understanding passes over his face, and his thumb gently strokes the marking.

 

“Told you before, this ain’t who you are.” He surrounds the wrist with both of his hands, covering the marking. “Crew looks at you and this ain’t what they see. Ain’t what I see. Sure as hell shouldn’t be what you see. So why is it?”

 

“Because it’s all everybody else sees.”

 

Yondu shakes his head. “Those people back there. Nothing but clients. We did a job for them, ‘cause they couldn’t do it themselves. Now we’re gonna drink their drink and eat their food, ‘cause its free and we earned it. They’re beneath you, Kraglin.” He clasps his shoulder again, giving it a hearty pat. “They think otherwise then they got problems between their ears.”

 

Kraglin smiles at the phrasing, bringing his other hand up to wipe at his eyes, but then his expression darkens. “Don’t make me go back.”

 

“Not going to. But not letting you go forward alone either.” Yondu takes off his own cloak, leaving it dumped on the pavement right next to his First Mate’s dishevelled cloth. “Rest of the crew’ll come back when they’re good and ready. Maybe they’ll get drunk and trash that fancy palace.”

 

Kraglin chuckles, nodding.

 

“And tomorrow we’ll call Quill to come pick you up.”

 

The adrenaline hits him so fast and so hard that it makes him feel nauseous. “Yondu?”

 

“Him and those Guardian are stationed with Nova Corp. Sure he’ll have room for you on board Milano for a couple of weeks.

 

“No more hiding among the crew.” He rolls back Kraglin’s sleeve. “You go to Xandar, and you show people that mark. You show everybody on Xandar that mark, and you see how they treat you after they see it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“‘Cause then maybe you’ll see that those people back there ain't everybody else. They're just a backward bunch of no hopers who ain’t worth a drop of these.” He gently brushes his index finger under the younger man’s eye, showing him the tears it picks up. "I want the next tears you shed to be because of the kindness of strangers, son."

 

He puts his arm around the First Mate's shoulders, and pulls him into step beside him.

 

“If they’re so backward, why work for them?” Kraglin asks, after a moment.

 

“For the warm fuzzy feeling I get when I overcharge them.”

 

 


End file.
